


Penance

by hanap



Series: Letters to A.J. Crowley, Esq. [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24106747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: Crowley asks for some time to come to terms with Aziraphale's confession. Aziraphale grieves, but he lets Crowley go. One day, Aziraphale realizes he needs to take matters into his own hands.Can be read as a companion fic toAnthony J. Crowley, Esq.Come find me onTwitterandTumblr!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Letters to A.J. Crowley, Esq. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753459
Comments: 18
Kudos: 133
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics





	Penance

**Author's Note:**

> A fic full of pining, which begins right after Aziraphale confesses his love to Crowley at last.

Crowley gently disengaged himself from Aziraphale’s clinging arms, looking rather dazed. He reached up and touched Aziraphale on the cheek with the back of one hand. Even that feather-light touch of Crowley’s skin against his own felt as though it left a trail of heat behind, setting Aziraphale aflame. He couldn’t help but lean into Crowley’s hand, wishing for his touch to linger. But all too quickly, Crowley pulled away, and with a snap of his fingers, his dark sunglasses reappeared, good as new.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured.

“What is it, dear?” Aziraphale searched Crowley’s face anxiously. Impulsively he reached up and made to remove Crowley’s sunglasses, but to his surprise and dismay, Crowley stopped him, laying a hand on Aziraphale’s forearm.

“Wait.” Crowley cleared his throat. “I have something to say.”

“Tell me,” Aziraphale whispered, distressed. “I’m listening.”

“Don’t take it the wrong way.” Crowley’s hand tightened on Aziraphale’s arm.

“I won’t.”

Aziraphale suddenly had an awful thought of what Crowley was about to say, and his heart clenched painfully. Was he too late after all? He thought he had been prepared for whatever answer Crowley would give, but now that the moment had come, he was no longer certain he could bear it.

“Tell me, please.” 

“I need to…” Crowley paused, his throat working. “I need some time. To think.”

And there it was. Crowley’s words settled like a heavy stone in Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Of course,” Aziraphale found himself saying mechanically, struggling to tamp down the sudden wave of emotion that was threatening to overtake him. “I understand.”

“No. You don’t.” Crowley released his iron grip on Aziraphale’s arm. “Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, stop it.”

Aziraphale found himself unable to speak, unable to meet Crowley’s eyes, overwhelmed. A warm hand cupped his cheek, tilted his face up so that Aziraphale was looking up into Crowley’s face, so close that he could feel Crowley’s breaths ghosting on his skin.

“None of that now, angel. You mustn’t misunderstand.”

“How – how long before I see you?”

Crowley hesitated, his lips parting as though to speak.

“Can’t say. It’s a lot to process,” he finally said softly. “You know that.”

“I do. Oh, my dearest.” He reached up to cover Crowley’s hand with his own, turned his face to press his lips into the warmth of Crowley’s palm. “Take all the time you need.”

Crowley’s lips quivered slightly, and he nodded. Gently, he pulled his hand away with one last caress of Aziraphale’s face.

“Like you said, I shouldn’t be here anyway. Lockdown, and all that.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, scolding himself inwardly. He hadn’t expected Crowley to ask to stay at the bookshop when they had spoken on the phone, and habits formed from eons of Heaven’s policies were terribly hard to break. Before he knew it, Crowley had hung up.

“I’ll be off, then.”

Aziraphale nodded, his heart in his throat. He had known all along that this would be agonizing for both of them, no matter what the outcome would be, and yet he felt at any moment that he might suddenly fall into pieces at the sight of Crowley walking out the door.

“Take care of yourself, my dear,” he managed, a watery smile on his face.

Crowley looked for all the world as though he wanted to say something, but the words would not, or perhaps could not, be said. He turned and walked to the bookshop entrance with his head slightly bowed. He stood for a moment by the door, as though undecided, and glanced back at Aziraphale for a moment. Aziraphale’s heart ached at the look on Crowley’s face, and longed to call him back – but in his split second of indecision, Crowley had already pushed the door open.

The chimes tinkled in the silence as the door shut with a click, leaving Aziraphale standing in the bookshop, alone.

\---

The first few weeks, Aziraphale threw himself into a flurry of activity. He perfected a fifth sourdough recipe, his favourite one yet, with a wonderfully nutty flavour that went beautifully with his homemade butter and jam. (He was still working on the jam – it was a bit too runny for his taste.) An enormous batch of Welsh cakes, piping hot and delicious, mysteriously appeared at 2:00 a.m. on a Thursday at the nurses’ desk of the children’s ward at St. James’s Hospital.

His pièce de résistance was a delicate mille-feuille, with lightly sweetened cream and strawberries sandwiched between the fine sheets of pastry. The paper-thin buttery layers had taken Aziraphale the greater part of five days to figure out – he had had to make a new batch of butter halfway through. A number of carefully wrapped croissants were found in various doctors’ offices, though no one could be sure who had brought them, or when, but they were delightfully flaky and warm as though fresh out of the oven.

He was certain Crowley would show up within the next few days, or would, at the very least, call him. He found himself constantly lingering by his desk watching the telephone, waiting for it to ring. He fervently hoped Crowley was simply sleeping, as he was wont to do. He did not even know if Crowley had elected to stay at his Mayfair flat, or if he had gone elsewhere.

It occurred to him, as he was rolling out some dough, that perhaps he should write to Crowley instead, since he had no other way to reach him. That evening, he sat down at his desk with a plate of Eccles cakes filled to bursting with dried currants, and picked up his pen once more.

\---

> My dear Crowley,
> 
> I know it has only been a few days since you were last here, but I feel your absence keenly.
> 
> I want to apologize for the distress I caused you. It was wrong of me not to have given you any warning. I admit I did not think you would see my letter until July, and that perhaps by that time, lockdown would have already ended, then we would have been able to talk at length. Forgive me, I should have known better. The last thing I could have wanted was to cause you more pain than I already have.
> 
> I hope you will allow me to show you how I feel, when you are ready. Allow me to lay all your doubt and fear at rest. I have let you carry this burden for far too long on your own.
> 
> I wish you were here with me. You would be vastly amused at all the baking I have been doing, I think. Maybe you would even deign to have a bite or two of some of my better attempts.
> 
> I wait for you anxiously, dearest. But I know we shall speak again very soon.
> 
> All my love,  
>  Aziraphale

\---

Aziraphale spent the next few weeks rearranging the entire bookshop and convincing himself he wasn’t disappointed that Crowley hadn’t called, when Aziraphale had been so sure that he would. Aziraphale wanted to respect Crowley’s wishes – clearly, though he had not said it in so many words, he needed to be alone for a time. The letter lay on his desk, neatly addressed, unsent.

Yet, as he lifted boxes upon boxes of books, and moved around entire bookshelves, he found that he was becoming steadily more and more irritated by the smallest things. A rare tome in perfect condition, except for a single dog-eared page. A book placed a row down from where it should have been. A precious autographed copy of _Wuthering Heights_ with a fleck of mildew on the cover. It was maddening.

Things came to a head one morning as he was carefully restoring the cover of an ancient copy of _Hamlet_. It had grown extremely delicate with age, and the worn leather cover needed replacing. After several hours of painstaking work was nipping the new leather over and around the thick bands holding the pages together, he accidentally pressed down too hard around the final band, tearing a small hole in the leather. Which meant he would have to start all over again. He refused to use miracles to restore his prized books, always preferring to do them by hand. But as he surveyed the tiny hole in the dark leather, he actually considered simply snapping his fingers and have done with it.

“Dreadful,” Aziraphale muttered in exasperation and shook his head in defeat. He’d had enough for one day. He didn’t want to risk damaging the book any further, but at that moment he felt as though he would rather throw the entire book into the fire rather than start the tedious process all over again.

He sat down heavily on the sofa, tiredly watching the steam rising from his teacup. Why on earth hadn’t Crowley called him yet? It was too cruel, the way Crowley was keeping him waiting like this. He wasn’t… deliberately toying with Aziraphale, was he?

Aziraphale pressed his palms hard against his eyes, letting out a long groan of exasperation. He strode back to his desk, pulling out a sheet of paper. He took his pen and dipped it into the inkwell, tapping its sharp point impatiently against the rim to get rid of the excess ink, not even bothering to sit down. In his irritation, the first pen stroke on the paper left a sprawling black inkblot.

“Oh, bollocks.” Aziraphale crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the bin before pulling out a fresh sheet. He picked up his pen and realized he had quite forgotten to wipe it dry, and tiny dots of ink shone on the surface of the desk. Very nearly losing his patience, Aziraphale raised his hand to snap his fingers and miracle away the ink, only to notice that his hand, too, was covered in black stains, and an infinitesimal ink blot had made its way onto the very edge of his shirt cuff.

“Bloody hell!”

\---

> Crowley,
> 
> It has been nearly twenty-five days to the hour since the last time you were here. Yes, of course I have been counting. Are you really all that surprised?
> 
> My dear, I said I would wait until you are ready. I meant it then, as I do now. But the days are dragging by infinitely slowly without you. I’m quite at a loss as to what to do with myself. Though I try to pass the time doing things I would normally enjoy, somehow, they seem to have lost all flavour.
> 
> I must admit I have been feeling rather slighted as of late. I have tried time and again to put it out of my mind, to no avail. You must forgive me. I could no more stop thinking of you than I could give up my books. And you know I would never give up my books.
> 
> I do not mean to be impatient, but every second has been a torment. Will you not end my agony? How much longer must I wait?
> 
> Aziraphale

\---

Aziraphale grew increasingly listless as the weeks crawled by. A pile of books was steadily mounting on his desk – _The_ _Odyssey, Swann’s Way, The Ocean at the End of the Lane,_ Oscar Wilde’s short stories _, The Colour of Magic, Persuasion, A Wizard of Earthsea,_ a collection of poems by Emily Dickinson. He had picked them all up at some point and began reading the first few pages, but found his attention lagging after a chapter or two. He’d put them down, thinking that he would return to his reading in the next few days, but he somehow never got around to it.

Dirty dishes and used angel mugs were beginning to accumulate on the various flat surfaces of the bookshop. Although he would have much preferred it, he was quite unable to do the washing up by hand. He would simply miracle them clean when he remembered, which was about once a week.

There were quite a few times that he caught himself staring dazedly into space for hours at a time, clutching a cup of tea that had gone cold. He would put the cup down on his end table and heat the tea up with a snap of his fingers, only to forget about it completely a few minutes later. By the time he remembered, the tea had gone cold again.

It was all rather strange, he thought. He could not remember having felt this way before. Oddly enough, he felt _tired._ Perhaps tired was not quite the right word – he was drained of all desire to do anything. All he wanted to do was to sit in his chair with a tumbler of whiskey to mute the dull aching in his chest. He avoided looking at the sofa, a keen reminder of a certain demon who was wont to casually drape himself over it whenever he was at the bookshop.

\---

> My dear Crowley,
> 
> I miss you terribly.
> 
> I have much more to say, I think, only I do not have the strength to write it down.

\---

July came and went with no sign of Crowley. Aziraphale loitered by the telephone all day on the first of July, but it only rang once that day, an eager customer inquiring as to whether the bookshop was open at last, now that the lockdown had been lifted. He had rather curtly said no and hung up.

He wasn’t lying – he had yet to open the bookshop. Some of the surrounding establishments had already decided to reopen their doors, though the streets were never as busy as they were just a few months ago. Humans no longer browsed casually as they once did, he noticed one day as he was lining up for pastries at a nearby bakeshop. They entered, stayed well away from other humans, spoke to no one but the cashier, and left immediately after making their purchase.

Aziraphale found it all quite lonely. The anonymity of masks, the minimal amount of contact between people. He’d donned a mask himself, for the sake of the humans’ peace of mind, whenever he left the bookshop. He doubted Soho would ever be what it once was before the quarantine, though he quite agreed that the humans should put public safety first.

This wasn’t the first plague he’d lived through, certainly. But never before had he shared so much of his life with Crowley, to have to endure such separation.

\---

> My dear Crowley,
> 
> Lately, I have found myself thinking about how terribly I have behaved all this time. You have always been so good to me, unfailingly so. I wish I had shown you how much I appreciated it. If only I had loved you the way you deserved to be loved, instead of pushing you away.
> 
> I am ashamed to think of it now, how I thought it would be best if we simply carried on the way we always have all these years. I have had so many chances to change things, but now, I rather think I might have been too late.
> 
> What if I had spoken that night at your flat, when we thought it might be the last night of our existence? When we dined at the Ritz the day after, should I have told you then? Or when you had asked to come over, to hunker down here with me at the bookshop? What if I had told you I loved you, on any of the days in between? If I had done things differently, would you have stayed?
> 
> Yours,  
>  Aziraphale

\---

The leaves were beginning to turn colour, and the weather growing cool. Aziraphale had been visiting the various delis and restaurants around the block in turn, and somehow, all of them had survived the worst of the lockdown, even the smallest mom-and-pop shops. One might even say it was nearly miraculous.

One day, as he stepped out of his favourite Chinese restaurant for some takeaway, the wind whipped fiercely against his face, bringing with it the first real chill of the approaching winter. Time to air out his winter clothes again, he thought. He hoped that, if Crowley was still in London, he was wrapped up snug and warm against the cold.

\---

> My dearest,
> 
> ~~I wish I could tell you how much I regret~~
> 
> I would happily sell every single book I owned. I would never take another bite of food again.
> 
> If you wanted to sleep for a hundred years, I would gladly lie beside you and wait for you to awaken. I would live with you in a nebula for the rest of time, if that was what you wanted.
> 
> I have lost count of all the chances you have given me that I have missed. Oh, my love, what I wouldn’t give for just one more.
> 
> Yours,  
>  Aziraphale

\---

The sign in the window that had once shown the bookshop’s erratic opening hours had been removed, and the “CLOSED” sign had become a constant fixture. This had the effect of causing dismay to several individuals who were out doing their Christmas shopping.

The salesclerk at the neighbouring record store would occasionally have customers inquiring as to whether the bookshop had been shut down, but they didn’t have the faintest clue. Yes, they would see the owner now and then, but the shop had remained closed since lockdown began. No, they had no idea if it was a permanent closure. Perhaps it would be best to call the bookshop to ask?

Meanwhile, next door, Aziraphale had drawn the blinds over the front windows and the door of the bookshop. He was getting quite tired of humans peering in, trying to catch a glimpse of him. He would unplug the phone too, if he could, only… His heart clenched at the thought that he might miss Crowley’s call.

\---

> My dear Crowley,
> 
> It has been a particularly dreary day today. The rain and ice have been coming down in sheets all day. The kind of weather you absolutely detest. I do hope you’ve been dressing appropriately for the weather instead of wearing those absurdly thin leather jackets of yours. Wherever you are, at least. I hope you’re warm and safe.
> 
> Yesterday, I was organizing my kitchen and came across a lovely bottle of red, a 1997 Brunello di Montalcino. You brought it last time you were in Tuscany, do you remember? I had no idea I still had a bottle left. All this time, I thought we had polished off the entire case the night you got back. I am saving it for the next time I see you.
> 
> It has been a long time since we last spent Christmas apart. I miss you constantly, but I have never felt your absence as acutely as I do now.
> 
> I hardly know what to say. I have wronged you many times, Crowley. You have seen for yourself all my faults and imperfections. But always, all this time, I have loved you, and only you. You carry my heart with you, wherever you are. 
> 
> Yours, always,  
>  Aziraphale

\---

Aziraphale’s fingers moved automatically, wiping his pen and blotting the ink carefully, allowing a few more minutes for the ink to dry thoroughly before folding up the note and addressing the envelope to “Anthony J. Crowley, Esq.” He idly walked to a window and drew the blind up – the rain had stopped at last, and the sky was surprisingly clear. Fewer people in London out and about would do that, Aziraphale supposed. The stars seemed more numerous than usual, twinkling softly in the darkness of the sky despite the neon lights of the street outside.

He returned to his writing desk, and paused before he opened the small drawer that contained his letters to Crowley. There were quite a few of them by now. He took them out and arranged them neatly, tying them into a small bundle with a piece of twine. As he secured the knot, the grandfather clock chimed eleven. Aziraphale looked up, startled. He hadn’t realized how late it was. As he looked back at his desk, surveying the bundle of letters, a wave of longing swept through him, so strong his legs nearly gave way.

_Oh._

For a moment, he could hear Crowley’s voice echoing in his mind like a revelation.

 _You’re so clever! How can somebody as clever as you be_ so _stupid?_

What was he doing, brooding in the bookshop like this? How could Crowley ever know how he felt if he didn’t _tell him?_

Aziraphale’s surroundings took on a dreamlike quality as he quickly pulled out a brown satchel from under his desk and stuffed the letters into it, before hurrying into his kitchen and grabbing the bottle of Brunello di Montalcino. He hurried out the door into the cold night, the door helpfully locking itself of its own accord behind him.

\---

Nearly half an hour later, after several near accidents on sidewalks slippery with ice and a rather hilarious encounter with an inebriated group of humans, Aziraphale found himself standing outside Crowley’s flat, his heart hammering against his ribs. Now that he was actually here, he had no idea what to do. He didn’t even know if Crowley was home. His hands fluttered uselessly.

At last, he decided to ring the doorbell, its snake-shaped ornament looking decidedly unfriendly in the stark light of the hallway. He pressed the button once, and he could just hear the corresponding buzz from inside the flat. He waited a few minutes, but there was no answer. He pressed it a second time, held it longer. The buzzing went on and on, but still no Crowley appeared.

Aziraphale sighed, unsure of what to do next. Maybe he should have tried calling Crowley before coming here. He thought hard for a minute, and then sighed, grimly steeling himself before snapping his fingers and pulling a mobile phone just like Crowley’s from the firmament. He’d seen Crowley using his own phone often enough, it couldn’t be that difficult.

He stood squinting at it for a moment. There was only one button that he could see. He pressed it with his forefinger and the screen lit up. Goodness, there were so many different buttons now. He pressed on a button with a picture of a phone on it and sighed with relief when it directed him to a keypad. After dialling Crowley’s number, he held it to his ear, waiting with bated breath to see if it would ring.

A familiar ringing noise started as the call connected. Aziraphale could faintly hear a shrill tone chiming repeatedly inside the flat.

So Crowley _was_ asleep, after all. Aziraphale, at that point, was so overwhelmed with emotion that he wanted nothing more at that very moment than to force the door open with his considerable angelic strength and shake Crowley awake.

But as the ringing continued, the hallway was abruptly flooded in darkness. Aziraphale shivered involuntarily. He immediately recognized it for what it was – powerful demonic energy. Before he could brace himself, the door was suddenly flung open, and Aziraphale was taken aback by the enormous figure looming ominously, eyes glowing in the darkness. The air shimmered and crackled with power threateningly, but Aziraphale, having recovered from the momentary shock, was undaunted. He had never seen Crowley like this before, and he had to admit it was all rather exciting.

“Crowley, it’s me.”

The large silhouette stopped advancing. The darkness quickly dissipated from the hallway, leaving behind Crowley standing in the doorway, barefoot and clad in a pair of black silk pyjamas. His hair was in disarray, and his eyes were amber to the very edges.

“Aziraphale,” he breathed, his eyes wide. “I – I didn’t know it was you.”

“I’m so sorry to have startled you. I should have known you were asleep.”

“Why are you here? Did something happen?”

Aziraphale was at a loss for words, though Crowley did not immediately notice, as he was too busy peering behind Aziraphale to check if there were any threats awaiting them at either end of the hall.

“No, only… Well, it’s Christmas Eve, you see,” Aziraphale said nervously.

“It’s _what?”_ Crowley nearly shouted, turning back into his flat to grab his phone from the coffee table, typing furiously as he returned to the door. “Damn. My alarm didn’t go off. Shit.”

He scrubbed at his face with one hand. Aziraphale had a feeling he wasn’t quite awake all the way through yet.

“I was just wondering how you were getting on. I hadn’t heard from you in some time.” Aziraphale bit his tongue at his own words. What were six months compared to six thousand years?

Crowley was staring at him hard, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. He scrubbed his hand over his face again, cursing under his breath, and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. It was quite long now, Aziraphale noticed suddenly, the auburn curls already past Crowley’s ears. The silence grew uncomfortably long.

“I – I brought some wine.”

Aziraphale tried to smile, but his hands were growing numb with apprehension. After another moment, Crowley moved aside wordlessly, so that Aziraphale could enter. He looked tentatively over his shoulder at Crowley, who took the hint and led them into the room that had once held nothing but an opulent throne and a desk with a telephone.

His mouth dropped open in surprise to see that the coffee table and the comfortable sofa that Crowley had miracled into existence on the night of the not-Apocalypse was still there, the sofa’s tartan print clashing magnificently with the brutalist aesthetic of Crowley’s flat.

“Make yourself at home,” Crowley finally rasped out. “I’ll get us some glasses.”

He snapped his fingers and warmth flooded into the room. Aziraphale crossed the room and sat down at the sofa, his posture ramrod straight. He clenched his fists tightly in his lap, trying to still the trembling of his fingers. Crowley had not drawn the blinds and the view was splendid, London laid out like a postcard and lit up for the holidays.

When Crowley returned, he was dressed immaculately in a black turtleneck sweater and jeans, his hair in soft curls, framing his face. He set down two wineglasses on the table before perching himself awkwardly next to Aziraphale.

“So. You said something about wine?”

“Oh! Yes.” Aziraphale had been somewhat distracted by the reflection of the city lights in the dark lens of Crowley’s sunglasses. Flustered, he pulled out the bottle of wine he had brought. In his haste, as he did so, the bundle of letters fell out and landed on the floor.

“You dropped something,” Crowley said, carelessly picking up the bundle. Aziraphale went scarlet to the roots of his hair as he laid the bottle on the table and watched with dread as Crowley stopped speaking, his eyebrows raising as he read the address on the top letter.

“Those are for you.” Aziraphale’s hands were twisting themselves together in his lap, and he fought to keep them still.

“Yes, I can see that.” Crowley looked up at Aziraphale, a mute appeal for an explanation.

“You can read them. If you like. They are yours, after all,” Aziraphale murmured. “I considered destroying them, but then… I thought they might do better at showing you what I want to say.”

Crowley looked back down at the pile of letters in his lap, and slowly began untying the twine that held them together. Aziraphale noticed Crowley’s fingers were shaking slightly, and he was having trouble undoing the tight knot.

“Here, let me –”

“No.” Crowley stood up abruptly and walked to his desk, his back turned to Aziraphale, who watched with trepidation as Crowley cut through the twine with a letter opener and slit open the first envelope.

It was the longest silence of Aziraphale’s entire existence. Crowley read his letters one by one without speaking, without looking at Aziraphale, hardly a sound but that of the letter opener scratching against paper every time Crowley opened another.

There was no reaction to the first letter. After Crowley laid down the second letter on top of the first, there was a noise rather like a huff. He lingered for an interminable moment on the third letter, considering it was only three lines long. There was a long exhalation of breath after the fourth. By the time he finished the fifth letter, Aziraphale heard what sounded suspiciously like a sniff.

Only one letter left. The faint scrape of metal against paper, slitting the final envelope open.

Another long sigh. Crowley unfolded the paper slowly. After a short moment, he crossed the room to where Aziraphale sat, flushed red and trembling.

“You wrote this today,” Crowley said, his voice rough with emotion.

“Yes. Before I came here.”

Crowley handed him the letter abruptly.

“Read it to me.”

Aziraphale took the sheet of paper from Crowley’s trembling hand, and hesitantly read out the words he had penned less than an hour before. Crowley had crossed the room and was standing at the window, his back turned.

“I hardly know what to say. I have wronged you many times, Crowley. You have seen for yourself all my faults and imperfections.”

Aziraphale’s voice faltered suddenly. He could stand it no longer. He rose to his feet and walked tentatively toward Crowley, stopping a few feet away from him. Crowley’s back was still turned.

“But always, all this time, I have loved you, and only you.”

Crowley suddenly wrapped his arms around himself tightly, as though reflexively shielding himself from a blow. He walked quickly and pushed the balcony door open. As the cold air blew into the room, the letters on Crowley’s desk were sent flying. Sheets of paper scattered all over the floor. Crowley paid them no heed as he stepped outside.

Aziraphale wavered. He gathered up the letters and walked to the balcony but stopped short, just by the door.

“Crowley, you carry my heart with you, wherever you are,” Aziraphale finished softly.

Crowley was leaning heavily on the balcony railing, his shoulders shaking. Bells started tolling in the distance as the clock struck midnight. Aziraphale blinked away the moisture in his eyes, and finally gathered up the courage to step out onto the balcony, until he stood next to Crowley. Even at a moment like this, it was impossible not to admire the magnificent view of the city.

Aziraphale was startled when Crowley took the letters from him suddenly, folding them up carefully before they vanished into nothing. Slowly, Crowley leaned against the railing again, his shoulder brushing against Aziraphale’s. They stood side by side for some time, just watching the city below.

“I’m surprised you managed to hold out this long,” Crowley said suddenly.

“You said you needed time!” Aziraphale’s lips turned down indignantly. “Of course, I respect your wishes.”

“Well, what made you change your mind today?” Crowley turned his head slightly towards Aziraphale, his head tilted in that way that was so peculiarly _Crowley_.

“I realized earlier… I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I? I’ve wasted so much time. Six thousand years of it.” Tears pricked Aziraphale’s eyes. “I couldn’t bear the thought of wasting another second more.”

Crowley was still for a long moment, and silence reigned for a few minutes.

At last, Crowley shifted closer, pressing his shoulder against Aziraphale’s, the heat of his touch warming Aziraphale all the way through. He took off his sunglasses and tossed them over the balcony, but Aziraphale saw them vanish before they ever hit the ground.

“Yes. You are an absolute idiot.”

Aziraphale spluttered at this pronouncement before seeing the tiny smile hovering around the corners of Crowley’s lips, the smile that meant that he was secretly pleased and didn’t want to show it.

“Fine. I deserved that.”

Crowley hesitantly stepped closer, until his chest pressed flush against the spot on Aziraphale’s back where his left wing would be, and leaned down to rest his cheek on Aziraphale’s broad shoulder.

“Let me take care of you now, Crowley.”

“You’d better.”

Aziraphale smiled and tucked Crowley’s arm securely under his. He pressed his lips into the curls that lay against his shoulder. For a moment, they were suspended in time – an angel and a demon huddled close together for warmth, the angel shielding the demon as they watched over humanity from above, just as they were from the Beginning.

“Merry Christmas, my love.”

“Mm,” Crowley agreed, and nestled closer to Aziraphale. “That it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. I've been very tired of Aziraphale pushing Crowley away. Here's some much-needed catharsis.
> 
> I thought of Aziraphale's emotions to be somewhere along the lines of [Frank O'Hara's "Morning"](https://readalittlepoetry.wordpress.com/2006/08/30/morning-by-frank-ohara/), [Pablo Neruda's Love Sonnet XVII](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49236/one-hundred-love-sonnets-xvii), [E.E. Cummings's [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/49493/i-carry-your-heart-with-mei-carry-it-in), and [Captain Wentworth's famous love letter](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ce/43/11/ce431167aee83e83bceb40ed880a3e67.png) from Jane Austen's Persuasion. 
> 
> Brunello di Montalcino, from the Tuscany wine region, is one of Italy's best-known and most expensive wines.
> 
> Here's a [photo reference](https://i.imgur.com/fYDcm2D.jpg) (bottom two photos) of the room they stay in at Crowley's flat.
> 
> Aziraphale goes through the five stages of grief, though not in order. Grief is generally not so obliging as to be experienced in a linear fashion, unfortunately. We're living in some strange times. Be gentle with yourself if you, too, are grieving.
> 
> Please stay home! Here's to a future where we're all safe and happy outside of lockdown.


End file.
